


Glitch

by VaterUnser



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Androids, Cyborgs, M/M, Minor Character Death, Robots, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-05 07:33:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1810369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaterUnser/pseuds/VaterUnser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set several centuries in the future. Unable-bodied humans are given a chance at life with robotic parts, although they are viewed as lesser beings because they are not full humans. Levi and Farlan struggle with the reality that life is disposable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awake

You can’t get the heart monitor beep out of your head. It breaks the silence every few seconds. It brings you back to the reality that is the bleak hospital room that you sit in. This time, it isn’t you. You’re there with someone. You wish it was you. The room is stark white. There is a small silver machine on a single leg about head height to you, showing how slowly his heart is beating. You like to think that that beep is pushing the blood through his veins. Veins lined with wires. Artificial. The surgery was a success, at least. It reeks like sanitizer and iodine. The smell is something you ought to be used to, you remind yourself. But this isn’t your situation. This isn’t something you have control over. You like to have control. This is a mess. Messes are bad. You remember the way he used to look at you, with those apologetic hazel eyes. They had so much emotion behind them. The memory brings heat to your cheeks, and you realize you’re crying. He’s got to wake up eventually. The operation was more than eight hours ago, and the surgeon said it would take about that for the anesthetic to wear off. Time has been crawling along. When he wakes up, you can ask what happened, pray he remembers the accident. Explain why you’re both in this mess, and why he caused you so much trauma. It isn’t fair to you, to be worried over his stupid ass like this. You’re not used to worrying about anyone, or anything, except if the dishes had been done, or if the front door was locked. It’s a god damn Sunday night, he didn’t work yesterday, why was he even out of the house? What did he do to put himself in such a predicament. Farlan Church, anything but god-like. Cursed, you like to think. There’s no way something like this could happen otherwise. The heart monitor beeps again, and brings you out of your headspace of guilt and dread. Beep. 

Deep in his veins, tiny bits of data receptors read the red and white cells pushing through with each beep. The information travels from the vein to the central cortex of the machine whirring in the base of his skull. This is what life has boiled down to. This is what life s now, just a collection of data in a being, staying alive. Each and every one of the millions upon millions of cells equipped with a sensor, marking its place wherever it travels, every half a second. Everything must be in place. Half humans don’t even require a brain to function anymore. Their heads can be completely empty, or filled with lifeless grey matter, or an extra large hard drive. Conventional death is a thing of the past. Viruses are a different concept than what they once were. They are no longer microscopic organisms only viewable through electron microscopes, or transmitted through bodily contact. 

You look over at him. His eyes are closed and not moving under the lids. His blond lashes touch his cheeks. You admire the way his nose slopes up ever so slightly at the tip, like an homage to his German heritage. With the assistance of the respirator over his mouth and nose, his chest rises and falls every few seconds with forced breaths. His head lolls to the side, and Farlan manages a slight groan. The beeping quickens, and his eyes force open. You sit up in your seat, and lean forward, with your elbows on your knees. 

“Farlan?” Your voice is hoarse, and your throat dry. It’s been a long eight hours of doing nothing in a dry hospital room, with circulated air. His eyes are focused on the ceiling, attempting to focus. You stand, and lean over him. Like the lens on a camera, his pupils constrict and dilate in attempt to focus. He sees you blur and focus before his eyes meet yours. Bloodshot. His eyes are bloodshot. His blink is slow, but exact. 

“Farlan, can you hear me?” You speak to him again, once his eyes lock onto you. He’s more cognitive now, perhaps he can manage a response, despite the respirator. Farlan gives you a slight nod in acknowledgement. The surgeon said he may be nonverbal for some time. His brain will need to reformat and settle before he can function fully again. You stare at him in earnest, and watch one of his eyes slide off to the side after dilating to almost the size of his iris. This is normal, right? Your heart starts to race as you see foam start to fill the respirator. The beeping grows faster than ever before, with a sound emitting from the sensor twice in a second. Panic sets in. Your hands reach for his shoulders, but a doctor shoves you out of the way. You stand in the corner of the room, as medical professionals surround Farlan, and yell things you don’t even understand. You’re clueless as to why he’s being moved to his side, and not kept on his back. That’s not what you do for seizures. You slump down against the wall. He can’t die, you remind yourself. He can’t. He’ll still be alive. Just a total mechanical being, incapable of feeling for you ever again. The warmth you feel when you’re in bed will be artificial, and you’ll know on the inside of his steel chest, it’ll be cold and calculated. You can program him to love you, and to feel for you, but it won’t be true love like you always hoped it was. You never heard him say it, but you know it was there. You see a man in blue scrubs insert a metallic tube into the base of Farlan’s neck, where it had been shaved for surgery. His skin was still dyed yellow from iodine. Within seconds, the monitor returns to normal, and the only other sound is a vacuum sucking the foam from his nose and mouth. He’s alright, he’s fine. He’s alive. 

Hours pass. The beep comforts you. He can breathe without assistance again. His skin is patched with titanium, bruises and sutures. He’s held together by thread and screws. The thread weaves in and out of purple and yellow flesh, barely staying alive. You can’t imagine the pain it will bring when morphine no longer pumps through him. His face is bruised, with red along the ridge of his brow, and radiating outward in green, yellow and blue tones. If it wasn’t so gruesome, you’d almost say it was beautiful. The pattern, that is. 

Farlan’s eyes open once again, and you pray that it doesn’t bring the same misfortune as the time before. Your own eyes are tired and dry from being awake for so many hours. What you wouldn’t give to be at home, in bed, is unworldly at this point. Peace and comfort are two things you took for granted when you had them. His head turns to you, and he stares at you again. Does he remember what just happened? Does he remember what happened the day before? You’re going to give cracking into his mind a go, when he makes it known that he’s lucid.

“Levi.” He says. His voice is dry, not unlike yours. The respirator whirrs with his speech, and your gut begins to sink. He remembers your name, at least. He recognizes you. Though you stop to wonder if it’s really him who remembers you, or if the surgeon was able to program a facial recognition software into his system for him to pick up on familiars. You’d like to think it was him. There may be tiny lenses behind his eyes, but it’s still Farlan, deep down. The same old Farlan who would hold you close and tell him he loved you in the middle of the night, when he thought you were asleep in his arms. You would just smile in response, knowing his eyes were closed. 

You get to your feet and stand beside him. His hands are wrapped in gauze, so you touch his shoulder instead. His eyes are still on you, and you can see the pain in his face. It has to hurt to move them, what with the stitching around the sockets. The linen on his shoulders is stiff with starch, and disposable. Hospital-issue gowns are never flattering, but it definitely beats being in a body bag. His eyes close, and his thin dry lips press together in the most pathetic smile you think you’ve ever seen him manage. The effort doesn’t go unappreciated. You lean down, and gently press your lips to his. A small tear from your cheek transfers to his face, and you wipe it off. You wish you hadn’t, after he winces.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him. He remarks on you whispering, but you don’t want to admit your voice might crack if you actually spoke up. His hand strokes your face, and you lean into his rough calloused palm. His hand is feverish against your skin. You lean in close, with his hand to your ear. Neither of you speak. You can hear a gentle fizzle through the skin of his hand. It’s both fascinating to you, and horrific. In that, you’re only compiling a list of what is now fake.


	2. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farlan and Levi return home. Farlan gives a vague attempt at remembering what happened, but gives up after his RAM resource is depleted.

Two weeks pass. After hours upon hours of painful physical therapy and rehabilitation, you’re permitted to go home. Levi is quiet during the journey home. Have you done something to upset him? Usually that’s the case. You jog your memory, and come up with no search results for an answer to your problem, so you assume not. 

“Levi?” You ask him. He is elbow deep in dish water. You have to stay away from liquid until all your lacerations have healed. He dries a plate with a gingham rag, and puts it in the cupboard before acknowledging you. Aluminium and glass. The cupboards are aluminium and glass. The glass is tempered, and therefore will not shatter if slammed. He lifts an eyebrow at you. Groomed and precise. 

“Why so quiet?” Your gaze focuses on him. Stiff shoulders. Limited range of emotions in his face, but his hands fidget. He has very slender fingers with very manicured nails. Raw cuticles from nerves. Chapped knuckles. Uneven breathing.

“The doctor said not to overstimulate you.” He is being curt with you. You nod. File that sentiment away for now and set a reminder to touch back on it some other time when you have the energy. Levi dries his hands on a rag and sits on the counter in front of you. You’re simply staring through his chest, but you can feel his eyes examining you. His thin fingers push your chin up and you meet his gaze. His face is as expressionless as ever, but that never bothered you. You smile at him. He squints at you in response, and peers closely at a stitch on your cheek. 

“You need to be cleaned again. You’re healing, and getting crusty. Gross. Come on. Bathroom.” He slides from the stone countertop, and pulls you to the bathroom by your hand. As far as you’re concerned, this is Levi being affectionate. He’s been more so gentle with you than before. Perhaps because you’re injured. But, you like to think it’s because he really appreciates you. Levi takes a damp sponge to your face, and carefully cleans away the buildup around your healing wounds. The water is warm, kind of how your gut feels when you think of Levi caring for you.

“Stop smiling, you look like a maniac. Crazy.” He mumbles, pressing the sponge to your lips. You splutter and grin.

“Crazy for you.” You can almost hear his eyes rolling. Deft fingers undo the buttons down your shirt, and push the fabric from your shoulders. Levi takes the sponge to your chest, while avoiding the areas made of titanium. It’s the most body safe material, you’re told. The most inert of metals. You think it makes you look like a patchwork teddy bear, with mismatched colors and materials. Still, he lays in bed with you. One hand on your chest. The sensor embedded in your ribs can sense his pulse through his fingertips. You know you can kiss your old life goodbye. Certainly you are not something for him to be proud of. You digress, however, because at least you’re still surviving.

Your eyes scan the ceiling as you lay in bed. The mattress has two distinct grooves in it, perfectly body proportioned to where you both lie. The room smells musty, but not moldy. It’s the lingering smell of post-coital sleep. Levi rolls to his usual position, on his side. He sleeps tucked between your chest and arm, with his head resting on your shoulder. His chin presses against your join, and he looks down at you.

“How did you end up like this? Do you even remember?” His voice barely greater than a whisper. You stall, unable to move your eyes or speak. An answer is formulating in your head.

“Farlan.” You look at him. Previous actions dismissed. You acknowledge Levi with a simple ‘hm’ and look at his face. There is the slightest look of concern, from what you can make out in the dark. Levi will very closely look at you, and furrow his eyebrows just slightly. He asks again, and you give remembering another go. In attempt to recall, you play what you remember through your head. Your memories play before you, like a projection being rewound on a screen. Hazy, and a little out of order. 

“I’m not sure. My mind isn’t quite in the right place.. I’m sorry. I want to remember, because I want to know as well. But, here we are, hm?” The corners of your lips turn down into a frown, and your head turns back straight so that you may continue to stare at the ceiling. Really, you’re just avoiding his gaze, because you feel guilty. Levi deserves to know, but you can’t provide that information yet. Perhaps you can have your drive cloned and read. Loved ones of the deceased often do that to remember the passed, or to reminisce over their fond memories from the dead’s perspective. You believe it to be obtrusive without consent. 

You don’t look forward to this life. There really isn’t a way to blend in with society again. Cyberflesh had been outlawed several decades ago, because humans got upset that they couldn’t tell who was borg, or human. It doesn’t sit well with you, since you’ve always been a firm believer in staying out of others’ business. Privacy is a thing of the past, much like landline phones and petroleum. It makes your heart sink that Levi can’t take you outside and be proud of you anymore. You stay inside, ashamed of who you are, and hide from the eye of the public. Cyborgs are as abled bodied as the rest of society; even more than the general human population. Humans are the embodiment of organic life, and therefore superior to those with added on recyclables. You’ve got old car parts attached to you. The Audi you wrecked three years ago is now embedded in your flesh like it belongs there. It makes what skin you have crawl with loathe and discomfort.


	3. Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to the beginning of Levi and Farlan's relationship.

You’ve known him since the first day of high school. The two of you were two timid barely-teens looking for their places where no one is accepted for who they are. Farlan reminded you of an insect you saw online once; the ones that kind of look like sticks with little faces and gangly legs. The two of you had math class together. You remember the teacher quite vividly. He had one of those faces that you couldn’t really forget. It was wrinkled, and the room smelled like raisins. Like him. He was a raisin. A gross old man with the personality of a dried grape. It used to leave a gross taste in your mouth, and you reckon that it still would if you were to see him again. As far as you’re concerned, though, he’s long dead. The man was probably haunting the classroom from the grave anyhow, forcing kids to endure his long lectures about proofs and angles of triangles. Geometry was never a strong subject for you. Farlan was good at math, though. That was how you first met the string bean blond. Fifteen minutes into your first lesson, the teach dropped twenty problems on everyone’s desk, said to paid up, and complete them in a matter of minutes. Lucky for you, Farlan was a whiz at math, and he did all the work while you ridiculed him for being such a nerd. Gratitude at it’s finest. 

It didn’t take long at all for the two of you to become a problem duo. Always passing notes and trying to stifle gut-wrenching laughter in the middle of class. Detention was always a riot. The faculty soon learned to schedule one of you for lunch detention, and the other for after-school detention or saturday school because of obvious reasons. 

Summer ended, and winter slowly rolled around the corner. February came sooner than you expected it to. To be honest, you dreaded the school year before starting, because you were always lonely in the past. But you met Farlan, and the time flew by. He asked you to date him on Valentines Day. You thought it was so fucking dumb and so cliche, but you said yes, because you just couldn’t say no to that massive dork. Cliche was just his niche. He was into Shakespeare and absurdist plays that no one had ever heard of. He took you to dinner that night, and after dessert, you made out in the back of his dad’s Nissan. It was cold, and acid rain pounded against the windows, but you both were too busy with each other’s mouths to notice. The windows fogged up. You only remember this because he called it quits after popping an awkward stuffy in his jeans, and you drew a dick on the window. 

Summer arrived quickly, with unrelenting, blistering heat. The asphalt and metal world you lived in radiated heat waves, but it didn’t bother you. It was natural, to be surrounded by artificial life. Humans and their domesticated livestock were the only organic things around. Your generation marked the so called baby boomers of fake life. Summers were spent sitting in Farlan’s garage, in lawn chairs and bottles of warm cola with umbrella straws in the cup holders. Neither of you spoke much. He grew quiet after his mother passed away three months previous. You understood why, though. You never pushed him to say anything. He was still physical with you, but he was depressed. You never voiced it, but you were worried for him.

“Farlan.” The cola went flat.

“Hm?” He adjusted his sunglasses. The ring through the septum of his nose reflected the sunlight. You both stared into the smoggy horizon.

“I think you need help.”

He turned to you with a brow quirked over his shades. 

You told him he’s depressed, but he just kind of shrugged. Non-committal answer. You weren’t going to push it. Last you heard of it, he did start therapy, and things improved with him. He would smile again, and tell you he loves you.

Half way through your junior year, he made love to you. It was the most awkward and emotional thing you had ever put yourself through. It was sweaty, limbs were everywhere, and neither of you finished, but you were so happy to have done it. He didn’t question your body. He did everything he knew how to make you feel good, and he did, despite being nervous. He constantly asked if if hurt, if he should stop, and what he could do to make it better. Farlan worried when you cried after the fact, but they weren’t negative tears by any means. You were just happy. So happy that he cared. You were a little overwhelmed, but he understood. He dried your cheeks, and you kissed him hard. You thought your heart in your chest might just swell and burst with emotions almost foreign to you when he whispered those three words. All of your limbs grew warm, and your cheeks turned bright pink. He leaned in close to your ear, with his hands on your shoulders.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is a little short. i wanted it to end like that, but it's a not as long as i had hoped, and i can't figure out a way to make it longer without making it long winded and drawn out in a bad way. hm. this flashback will also hopefully be a few chapters long as well. i want to develop their relationship more. i'm just losing a bit of steam and i'm exhausted from work, so. here you go. ;3;


End file.
